


and so the fire burned

by Tupipsie



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Character Study, Depression, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:09:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27637307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tupipsie/pseuds/Tupipsie
Summary: there seemed to be an emptiness that filled kurapika and left him empty at the same time. a profound sadness that gripped him so tight and never let him go.and, for a while, he let chrollo numb that sadness. for a while, chrollo was his sunshine.until the world went dark again.
Relationships: Kuroro Lucifer | Chrollo Lucifer & Kurapika
Kudos: 5





	and so the fire burned

**Author's Note:**

> hiiii !! massive tw // there is an implied suicide in this fic, so pls beware and read with caution. there are also mentions of partners fighting, relationship violence, violence in general, and a lot of depression and anxiety imagery. pls read at your own risk. it is rlly sad bc i feel like thats the only way to write chrollo x kurapika fics. they just have to be angsty or u aren't capturing the true essence of their characters haha. anyways i hope u enjoy ! grab tissues cause this one's sad.

Fire burned in his lungs as smoke swirled on his tongue, pushing past his lips, and then filling the air. Every drag he took from the cigarette soothed his heart by filling it with tar and flame, killing it until all he could feel was a faint buzz in the back of his head.

Kurapika was a forest fire that didn’t want to stop burning until everything around him was ash. There was an absoluteness to him, a level of certainty that he carried with him wherever he went. His fingertips numbed in the cold weather as he took the cigarette in between his pointer and middle finger, holding it like he owned the world.

The universe was frozen before him, the lake he was observing covered in a thick layer of ice as children played on it, tempting fate. Almost as if he could feel the thread being pulled and the scissors’ metal screech as they were held, Kurapika looked away and took another drag of his therapy. Clenching his fists, the anxiety building in his system fled as smoke once again billowed from the cursed mouth from which they came.

There were few things Kurapika lived for. It seemed that, as the days went by, the things got fewer and fewer. Currently he was reveling in the feeling of the wind biting his nose and clawing at his cheeks, the hostility of it all comforting him. Yet his fingertips never seemed to buzz like they used to, nor did his lungs sting when he breathed too sharply in the winter. Greyness covered the landscape in a way that crushed Kurapika, drowned him and made him seethe.

Scalding hot was the only way to define the boy; he held a temper he could not control, although he desperately tried to. It was something that tore him down rather than built him up, and in his situation, he needed all the uplifting thoughts he could get. Feeling anything was getting difficult for him, so he clung to his anger as if it was the last fiber in the string as it was being cut.

It fueled him, his rage. Kept him sane when he felt like the world was breaking horribly, shattering into a million pieces too tiny to glue back together. Somewhere, though, rationality squeaked in the back of his mind, beckoned him to reality. He hurt himself and others when his vision got too red, too heated. And for that he hated himself.

This caused him to feel pain as well, especially when his anger collided with other people’s fury. That satisfied Kurapika for a while, when he felt pain. Throbbing until it inevitably numbed. He didn’t dare try and speed up the healing process of these wounds, and instead he savored them for as long as they stuck around. Some people would offer band-aids or give their own worried glances, but they fell on an unwilling recipient. When his wounds left scars they would tingle whenever he looked at them, and when he learned that he strived to make sure every injury, every fight, left a scar.

What was the point of getting hurt if the pain eventually went away?

No one tried to stop him on this desperate crusade of emotion that he disguised as simply being a delinquent with no prospects. It was easier to him that way. Easier to pretend that no, he didn’t care if people talked around him and never to him. There was no twisting of his gut whenever his name was never called. Besides, everyone assumed he would disappear once they all graduated, that he would become a fun memory to laugh at once they were all at their high school reunion. Sans Kurapika, of course.

The blonde didn’t seem to exist to anyone unless they were actually staring at him with their own two eyes as he furiously punched a fellow student into the ground. Blonde hair acted like curtain as it shielded his profile from view, his dangling red earring catching ever so often when the sun hit it. Not that he noticed, anyway. His expression was barely even miffed as his eyebrows were furrowed, his mouth merely a scowl. His eyes, however. Those seemed to glow a bright red, his vision filled with the sight of the blood pouring out of Uvogin’s nose.

His own nose was dripping crimson, yet he paid it no mind. He wished it was broken, but then again, his mother would be upset if his pretty appearance was to go to waste. Hopefully she could see him, maybe as a ghost haunting his presence. It would make sense if she was the source of all his misfortune, her unrestful spirit wanting revenge. Kurapika didn’t believe in ghosts, though, and he certainly doubted an angel like his mother would ever become one if they did exist. Part of him wished they did, though. Maybe he could see her one more time.

Uvogin didn’t do anything in particular. Kurapika, despite his raging anger issues, was fairly calm when it came to certain belligerence. Other forms of aggression, especially those including his family, were quite unforgivable in his eyes. When Uvogin cursed out Kurapika’s mother, his vision blacked and violence engulfed his body. To be honest, he didn’t remember much of what happened after that.

Flicking his cigarette to the ground, he wiped his knuckles on his school uniform, staining it permanently. It was the fourth one he’d stained that month, although this was the only time it was because of a fight. He blinked away the last two hours as if they were a dream that tainted his current reality, and he tried to rid himself of the smell of copper and iron.

Sometimes, when he found himself particularly bored in the park he frequently found a certain desolate solace in, he would slam his head into the metal poles that held up the swings. Other times he would punch them, especially if he had run out of cigarettes. Mostly he would punch them. There was an overwhelming sense catharsis that he experienced whenever his skull rang loudly in his ears, the clang of the metal intoxicating to him.

Mind buzzing and eyes pricking with tears, somehow Kurapika felt a rush of excitement whenever his head made contact with the metal. It was best when the pole was cold from winter’s grasp, because it cooled the raging embers in Kurapika’s mind. Punching made his hands bruised and scarred, tainting what used to be gorgeous and delicate. Scabs had built up around his knuckles, the digits gnarled and grotesque.

He bit his fingernails. Maybe it was from stress, or maybe he liked the way his fingers throbbed whenever he would rip a hangnail from his skin, blood pooling onto his nailbed. He liked squishing it, causing more blood to gush out. 

Anything he could to ruin his hands, he did. He loathed them, the way they looked, the things they did. Kurapika was, if anything, an incredibly hypocritical person. One minute he would be criticizing those who carelessly caused violence, and the next he would commit his own assault. It was a terribly degrading cycle, one Kurapika only continued due to his deep hatred for himself. At night he would hold his face in his hands and cry tears that were never meant to be shed, and feel things that caused his insides to boil him alive. Legs would press up against his chest as he curled into himself, his already lithe figure compacting into a fragile ball. Vulnerability would soothe his frame as he relaxed, eyes finally dry, and only then would sleep consume him.

His self-hatred only fueled the paradoxical cycle he forced himself through. ‘You deserve it’, he would whisper to himself as his tears continued to fall. Gripping tightly at his hair, he forced his eyes as wide open as possible as he furiously stared at the darkness that enveloped him. He would think of his hands, of his memories, and as he lamented over his past life, cruel sounds escaped him.

Visceral and true, heaving screams and shaken sobs coated Kurapika’s throat and soured on his tongue. It was as if he was dying, and in some ways, he certainly was. Light was something foreign to him at night, the cold filling his lungs every time he took a breath.

He had given up on a blanket long ago.

When he awoke, suffocation would hold him down and curse at him, eyes still wide yet vacant as they searched for a nothing they could not find. A fogginess filled him, as if his consciousness hadn’t quite caught up with him yet. He was still in a peaceful state, one of ignorance and decided morality. After his heartbeat registered in his ears, only then would he acknowledge reality. Quietly he blinked, scared to disturb the very air he breathed.

The vulnerability had yet to shed itself from him and his fragile body as he carefully stretched out from his compacted position. Kurapika wiped the stains his tears left behind from his face, the grainy saltiness hurting his skin. His eyes burned with an exhaustion that would never be satisfied. His body had not felt the comfort of true sleep in so long. There were moments where he would dream, but his own fear of allowing himself any relief caused him to wake. He would then drift in and out of a stuttered and choppy slumber that took a toll on both his mind and body.

Brokenly, as if his brain had yet to connect his limbs with his thoughts, he clambered out of bed to experience the day. His life was like watching a 3-D movie, except he forgot to put on the intended glasses. It was nauseating and disorienting, and sometimes he would get a little lost for the simple fact that his brain was handling too much at once.

He was jealous of the other people for getting to wear the 3-D glasses.

He lit another cigarette.

Slowly, quietly, he took a shower, not ready enough to make a sound. He scrubbed too hard on his skin, leaving it raw and tender as he cleansed himself. He didn’t want to feel dirty, to feel tainted. Kurapika washed his hair with careful apathy, his appearance of no importance to him. He forgot when his last haircut had been.

He greets nothing and says goodbye to the wall as he exits his house, his mind blank as he longed for the familiar feeling of smoke in his lungs. Instead, the numbness he had become accustomed to squirmed its way into his organs as he functioned on auto-pilot. Focusing on his fingers, not even those seemed to respond to his desperate need for sensation.

Once again, he burned. It was bright and burning, the way he seared through the world. He reduced his world to cinders, crumbling ashes, and painful smoke that mutilated his vision. Yet still he set himself ablaze, not caring as long as it caused him to feel. Any sensation was welcomed, especially the fury of pain and the passion of anger.

Chrollo seemed to satiate this need for flame. He burned Kurapika from the inside out, filling his soul with molten lava and brandishing him with liquid gold.

For the first time in his life, Kurapika experienced a different emotion. Love, obsession, and adoration. Chrollo was many firsts for Kurapika. He was calm, and he was protection. Instead of seeking cigarettes, the blonde searched for the shadow who had made himself known when the younger needed him the most.

Instead of sobbing himself to sleep, he would cling to Chrollo, fist his shirt in his hands and breathe in the smell of clean air and sunshine. Comfort ached in Kurapika’s bones, soothed his muscles and washed away his guilt.

Chrollo would kiss the bruised and scarred knuckles Kurapika hated so, and he would hold them like they were precious and delicate. And finally the fragile boy’s fingertips would tingle, and it almost made him burst into tears the moment the sensation registered within Kurapika’s brain. His lungs cleared, the smoke that had filled them for so long now gone. And Kurapika _breathed_. He gulped in air, and goddamn it he _laughed_. Pure joy filled him and it overwhelmed him all the same.

Joy was an emotion unfamiliar to Kurapika. Somehow it made him feel so full and so empty all at once, and it caused his ears to buzz. His chest seemed to tighten whenever laughter would bubble in his heart, and his throat would close whenever Chrollo would smile at him. He counted that as joy, too.

Happiness was different than joy to Kurapika. Happiness was the sunlight he could feel on his face whenever he woke up next to Chrollo, and it also came as the smell of Chrollo’s familiar shampoo and body wash. Sometimes it also came as the aftermath from waves of pitiable sadness when Chrollo yelled at him but always apologized for doing so.

Happiness was found in the little glances Chrollo gave him and the sneaking touches Kurapika would feel on his thighs and neck. Embarrassment usually followed that happiness. Most of all, Kurapika, for the first time in his life, felt content.

Until he became numb again. Until the touches stopped all together and all that filled their absence was rage and fury and everything Kurapika had thought he had left in the past. His nose was no longer filled with the smell of clean ocean and shining light, but instead it had been refamiliarized with the suffocating stench of smoke.

It was all too much to bear, the rushed, heavy weight of it all. It swallowed Kurapika whole as he fought to get out of the belly of a dragon. No longer was he trapped by his shell of gold, his disillusionment being fueled by the anger that used to control his life.

And it caused him to finally crumble.

Kurapika didn’t know what happened. They started fighting, him and Chrollo, and the latter’s nonchalant approach to the situation charred Kurapika’s mind as he yelled louder, faster, and with more meaning. This wasn’t just about whatever meaningless thing they were quarreling about, but instead Kurapika was staking his entire life on the outcome of their fight.

Chrollo had become his entire life, and Kurapika hated that more than he realized. The way he had clung so desperately onto the other, the dependency he felt whenever he was alone. As if he were intoxicated, addicted, Kurapika refused to stop taking the drug that was Chrollo. Yet still, he hated the absence of touches, the darkness that had reclaimed him once the withdrawal set in. No more was the smell of sunlight and the breaths of fresh air. It was a feeling the blonde was foolish to get to know. In the end, he really only played himself, for how can you douse a fire without killing it?

Or, more accurately, how do you revive a fire once it has been snuffed out?

Kurapika wasn’t sure when his flame had gone out, and he wasn’t sure of how strong it had been in the first place. He supposed that during his relationship it had been flickering with life, his embers fanned into flames by Chrollo, yet now he barely even felt the warmth of heat. Somewhere deep in his mind Kurapika knew that he was relieved his rage had been stomped on until it disappeared. It was a fickle thing to only live for violence, especially with the self-destructive tendencies Kurapika had. Fire is not meant to last forever; it is made to burn bright and hot until its purpose has been served and it is no longer needed. Kurapika was just fulfilling his duty.

All Kurapika could feel was death and decay. Everything seemed to be turning to ash around him, as if it was all burning down. All he did was watch with a blank stare, as if he wasn’t truly in control of himself. He would stand out in the cold weather, just as the snow started to fall, and he would let the air sting his lungs and bite at his skin. For the numbness he had buried deep inside himself corroded his soul as he struggled to breathe and to move, yet somehow winter seemed to allow him some comfort. Chrollo’s face was set in a straight line, eyes full of pity, as he watched Kurapika stand outside in the freezing cold.

Kurapika nearly vomited. Pity was the last thing he wanted, or even needed, from the other male. Eyes burning, he folded back into himself. Suddenly his secrets were all his again, not meant to be shared or uttered with another. Chrollo had lost that privilege. At this realization, Kurapika felt the first cracks beginning to form on the final layer that was left on his heart. So he cried. He cried boiling tears that scarred the ground and made Chrollo wince as he tried to wipe them away. Kurapika wailed broken phrases that he couldn’t even decipher, his pent up emotions bursting out in a cloud of steam and vapor.

He made a magnificent volcano.

He had been released from the claws of the dragon, no longer trapped by his jaws. Finally it was simply Kurapika and Chrollo, as it should’ve been. They weren’t healthy, nor did Kurapika think they ever would be, but for now they were enough. Enough was all Kurapika needed.

Chrollo didn’t quite agree. He was, in the plainest terms, uninterested in the flame Kurapika had burning inside himself. Instead, Chrollo adored the way he smiled at sunlight and savored pancakes on Sunday morning. Chrollo appreciated the little things about his partner, yet was never interested in the emotional side of things. To him, the blonde was like a lost kitten in need of a home. A pet in search of rescue. The darkest parts of him considered Kurapika a beautiful ruby jewel meant for displaying. He supposed that was why they fought so often.

Chrollo had been in many relationships in his life. Kurapika was admittedly on the younger side, something that probably contributed to their increasing amount of fights, but he was also stubborn. More stubborn than Chrollo had initially thought, which caused him to want to stay. For curiosity reasons, of course.

Chrollo, like Kurapika, felt a little too much nothingness. He, however, saw nothing wrong with that lack of emotion. Nothing was left out about him, as his one overpowering emotion was curiosity. It wasn’t innocent, though, the way he greedily stole the life away from his partners simply because he wanted to see how they would respond. Their responses never hurt him, and only proved to inspire him more.

He was utterly insatiable in his greed for knowledge and, above all else, power over others. It was his driving force in a way, seeing others crumple beneath him.

It wasn’t until after Chrollo’s tidal wave extinguished Kurapika did the younger finally realize that for himself.

Kurapika’s fingertips didn’t tingle anymore. His eyes didn’t burn. Not even his cigarette’s caused his lips to carry the sweet aftertaste of smoke. Frost never stung his throat or nipped at his ears. There was an open nothingness, a vacuous hole that sucked Kurapika’s deepest thoughts into it and never let them out again. It was nihilistic, the way Kurapika lived after Chrollo left.

His curiosity, it seemed, had been peaked by another person of interest. One of much more value than Kurapika. It hurt for a moment, but eventually it faded into the background of obscurity that was the cesspool of emotions he was currently repressing.

Kurapika cried for a long time. He cried more than he thought he could, the tears never ending as they poured out of his eyes in waves of grief that crumpled his resolve and broke his bones. He fell to the floor in agony, wailing over lost everythings that he knew would never return. Kurapika was a whirlwind, a forest fire, and most of all a force to be reckoned with.

His emotions surprised him, especially when the first tear made itself known as it rolled down his cheek. It scorched him, the wetness, the sadness of it. So he cried more, and he didn’t seem to stop. He was emptying himself of feeling, of love, of happiness. These tears were more than a release, they were his last goodbye. The last hurrah he would ever make as a human, living and breathing and most of all _feeling_. Regret sunk deep into his face, his gorgeous grey eyes turning red from crying.

Kurapika was gorgeous in a quiet way, a somber beauty that was etched into his dark circles and his high cheekbones. Tired tragedies formed his lips as they frowned, and a deep sense of worry molded his eyebrows. Neglect built his frame and apathy painted his skin in such an expert way, one glance towards him allowed for anyone perceiving him to feel such an immense sadness that it crushed them.

Kurapika burned to fast, too hot. Too all at once. Nothing controlled him, his only consequences coming from himself and his own self disdain. It was only a matter of time before the tidal wave that was Chrollo crashed into him and buried him alive.

So Kurapika picked himself off of the floor, wiped his tears. He shook for a moment, his eyes blurry. He was in too much of a rush, the ground wobbling beneath him. Yet he steadied himself, positioned himself in a way that closed himself off from the world further. He curled into himself, closed his mind off to his surroundings.

He didn’t bother putting on shoes, finding it all the more burdensome. It wouldn’t matter, anyways. He climbed the rickety, creaking stairs of his apartment building until he reached the metal door he pushed open with all his might. Frail and delicate, his bones threatened to shatter as the cold winter wind hit him in the face. His feet walked in the snow, the cold barely stinging him. Even if he tried to think, he couldn’t conjure up anything to think about. There seemed to be a wonderful emptiness to him that he rather enjoyed for a moment. The nothingness invited him with open arms.

And he breathed. He breathed deeply. Not of smoke or of pain, but of pure, clean air.

It seared his lungs so beautifully, the air filling them in such a way that made Kurapika _grin_. Lifting his eyes and pulling at his heart, for the first time in his life true happiness overcame him. Such intense moments were truly meant for the end, the best act always saved for last. A final testament to the shit-show his life had been. And as the curtain closed, with a bow,

Kurapika jumped.


End file.
